


I Dream of Thee

by Amethystaris



Series: I Dream of Thee [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 01:18:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10525878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethystaris/pseuds/Amethystaris
Summary: When Dean first started dreaming about the old west, he thought it was due to watching too many Clint Eastwood movies. As the dreams continued to happen in vivid detail he began to realize the dreams, and Castiel Novak, were more than a figment of his imagination.





	1. Chapter 1

~1861~

 

The day was straddling the line between spring and winter, sunshine warm and bright while a cool wind brought a chill that snuck into any gap it could find. An especially icy blast slithers down Dean Winchester’s collar as he steps out onto the front porch to face the “guests” come to see him.

“You’re just in time, Azazel,” Dean greets his neighbor as the man pulls up just shy of the porch railings, flanked by his son and daughter. “I’ve just finished up baking a pie with the last of my store of apples.”

“Mighty kind of you, Winchester,” Azazel replies. “But we both know I’m not here for a social call.” Casually, he unholsters a gun and uses the barrel to push the brim of his hat up.

In the normal scheme of things, Dean would be small beans and hardly worth the effort of intimidating off of his modest homestead. There was plenty of land around, even for someone as greedy as Azazel. Except that Dean was not built to step aside and keep his head down. He’s been trouble for Azazel ever since he arrived in town. Stepping in and helping other folks, getting involved in fights that had nothing to do with him, that's the way he was built.

Now Azazel has come to take care of the problem, once and for all.

The door behind Dean opens with a soft creak; the sound of a pair of boots stepping onto the porch fills the silence. He does his best not to tense, not to betray any sign that it matters to him that Dr. Castiel Novak has just stepped into harm’s way.

Dammit, Cas. Dean had told him to go, soon as he had spotted the horses coming up the path. Figures that the man wouldn’t listen for once in his life. Dean didn’t exactly have a solid plan for surviving this, and his odds just dropped exponentially now he has to worry about Cas as well.

“Doc Novak,” Azazel greets the new arrival. “Winchester, here, has been giving me a lot of problems. I’m sure you’ve patched him up enough to notice. I would have been perfectly happy watching his back disappear over the horizon. Before. Now? Now, I want there to be pain.” He holds up the gun for Dean and Cas to see. “I’ve had the hoodoo put on this here Colt. Been told that whoever dies by it, their soul will suffer eternal torment. Lovely thought, isn’t it? I’ve no intention of finding out the truth of that myself, but it will make me happy imagining Winchester in that position.”

Cas clamps his hand on Dean’s shoulder, as if by doing so he could keep Dean safe from such a threat.

There is no more time for thought. Azazel acts with seeming indifference, taking aim and firing straight at Dean’s heart. Cas shouts something, Dean’s pulse thundering too loudly to hear what. Dean is shoved out of the way, his palms stinging as they slap against the weathered boards of the porch.

Dean scrambles to his knees. “Cas? Cas!”

“Dean?” Cas is sprawled on the porch next to Dean, looking dazed and unfocused. Dean pats his hands all over Cas, looking for blood, for injury. Azazel and his children fade from awareness, forgotten.

No blood. No blood. Dean feels a spark of hope. Then… a wisp of light rises from Castiel’s chest. The blue of his eyes begins to glow, brighter and brighter. Dean refuses to look away. “Cas…” His voice cracks.

“Dean.” With surprising strength, Cas reaches for Dean’s hand, clasps it in his own. “Dean. I love you.”

The threads of light twist together and hover for a moment over Castiel’s chest. As Dean watches with a mix of awe and sorrow, the glow speeds back along the path the bullet had taken moments ago. The Colt flares blue as the light seeps into the engravings. The cold shock of it causes Azazel to drop the gun, the light fading to nothing as the weapon hits the dirt with a soft thud. Azazel turns his horse and rides off, leaving Dean alone in his misery.

 

~Present Day~

 

Dean flails awake, confused and panicked. His living room is dark, the only light coming from his television. He blinks a few times, but that doesn’t clear his blurry vision. He reaches up to rub his eyes and finds them wet with tears.

He has never had such a visceral dream before. His pulse is still pounding wildly, and it feels like his chest has been cracked in two from grief. This felt like more than a dream. This felt like he was _there_.

Tipping himself out of his recliner, Dean stumbles his way to the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water. He’s been on a Clint Eastwood kick lately. Now that his vision isn’t blurred by tears (embarrassing) he can see that _The Good, The Bad and The Ugly_ is still playing.

Right. Right. That would explain the western themed dream. He takes his water, turns off the TV, and heads to bed. He’s good at pushing down grief, at ignoring it. How hard can it be to forget some dude conjured out of his own imagination?


	2. Chapter 2

~1860~

 

“What you are telling me is that this town advertised for a doctor, that your mayor wrote to me a glowing account of the clinic and accommodations above such, while knowing full well that  _ this _ is what awaited?”

Dean slows down, his attention caught by the low gravelly tones of the speaker before the words themselves filter through. Instead of turning left out of the general store, he pauses to lean against one of the posts holding up the awning and watches Deputy Fitzgerald try to smooth the ruffled feathers of the town’s new doc. 

He may not come into town that often, but even he has heard that a new doctor had finally been hired after poor Doc Elkins had been burned out. Seems no one had bothered to tell the new doc that he was going to have to start from scratch building a clinic. 

He’s clearly an Easterner, with the accent and the way he’s dressed. A tan coat was not the best idea if the intent was to hide the dust and dirt of travel. Still, irritated looks good on the guy. Dean takes a quick mental inventory of town. Elkins isn’t the only guy that was burned out. There’s damage to a lot of buildings around, thanks to Azazel’s particular brand of intimidation. Means people are packed in a bit more tight than what would be normal in a town this size. In fact, the good deputy is just now telling the doc that the boarding house is full. 

Before he’s even made the conscious decision, Dean steps forward. “You can stay at mine,” Dean offers, holding out his hand in preparation of introducing himself. The doctor turns towards him, and further words are lost as Dean near swallows his tongue. 

Garth, happy guy that he is, fills in the introductions for him. 

“Mr. Winchester.” The man takes hold of Dean’s hand and shakes it.  “Good to meet you. You have a room to rent?” His grip is strong, confident. The pulse of energy that skitters up Dean's arm from the point of contact unsticks his tongue. He plasters on his most charming grin. 

“Not as such, Doc. I don’t have a separate room, but we can make something up for you. My place is a bit out of town, might not be ideal what with your patients being centralized here. But I have a buggy you can use to get back and forth. And I make some mean flapjacks.”

The two stare at each other for some time before the doctor’s squint relaxes and he gives a slight nod. “It appears I have no other choice. Thank you, Mr. Winchester. It’s quite hospitable of you.” 

Dean’s smile relaxes as well to something more genuine. “Call me Dean.” 

~~~

“You don’t have to keep calling me ‘Doc’ you know,” the doctor ventures as the two of them are unfolding Dean’s spare set of sheets to make up a bed for the man. 

A blush steals across Dean’s cheeks as he rubs the back of his neck. “Well, the truth is, I missed your name when Garth introduced us.” 

“Castiel Novak,” he introduces himself again. The corners of his mouth tilt up in a small smile.

Dean smiles back, warmth blooming in his chest to see the way the other man’s eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles. “Castiel. Mind if I call you Cas?”

 

~Present Day~

 

“You’re gonna lose a finger, boy.” 

Dean jumps, and turns to glare at Bobby. “Warn a guy before you walk into his shop.” He’s a bit defensive because, yeah. His mind hasn’t been fully on his carpentry work and it’s not the best idea to start using a saw when he’s not concentrating. Doesn’t mean he’s going to admit Bobby is right. 

He picks up some sandpaper instead and starts smoothing down the surface of a dining room table commission he has been working on. “What are you doing here?”

“Hello to you, too.” Bobby walks farther inside and picks up some more sandpaper to help out on the other side of the table. “Sam called me. Said you’ve been ‘weird.’ I said I’d come talk to you, mostly to get him to stop getting on me about it.”

Dean huffs. “Have not,” he mutters. So he didn’t hear half of what Sam was talking about last time he called. Not like that’s unusual. Kid uses five sentences for what could be said in two words. 

Maybe he’s been a little distracted lately. He doesn’t remember all of his dreams, but every one it’s like he’s been dropped in the middle of  _ Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman _ . Jane Seymour replaced with  _ Dr. Novak, Medicine Man _ . 

“Sam has a point,” Bobby speaks up, watching Dean with a flat expression. 

“ _ You _ have a point,” Dean replies. Shit. Not exactly stellar levels of comeback there. He tosses the sandpaper down, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Want a beer?”

They retreat into the house and Dean joins Bobby in the living room, tossing the man a bottle. Bobby has flipped on a baseball game, and Dean is content to pretend to watch it with him. 

It’s the seventh inning stretch before Dean finally cracks. “Dad ever mention anything to you about his family? Like maybe where the Winchesters came from? Old west mining town? Just as an example.”

“Oh yeah,” Bobby replies, sarcasm heavy in his tone. “Our relationship was all about the sharing and caring. You’ve been watching too many spaghetti westerns, boy?” He uses his beer bottle to gesture at the stack of Clint Eastwood DVD cases next to the TV. 

“Yeah. Sure. Cowboy so much in my blood I must have been one in a former life.” He passes it off as a joke, but the thing is he’s starting to wonder. He knows what a normal dream is. These ones feel a whole lot more like memories.


	3. Chapter 3

~1860~

 

They’ve settled into a routine that works for both of them. Every day, Dean gets up first and heads out to take care of the animals. When he’s back from morning chores, Cas will have breakfast done and waiting. They’ll sit down and share a meal, sometimes talking but sometimes not. Either is just fine for Dean, he just enjoys the other man’s company. It’s gotten to the point where he can barely imagine anymore what it was like when he lived out here on his own. 

After breakfast, Cas heads out to town to do his doctoring and Dean works his land. Sundays, though. Sundays are a day off from hard labor. 

“Are you done with the potatoes?” Cas asks, not looking up from his task of chopping vegetables for the stew.

Dean clears his throat and drags his gaze back towards the pile of potatoes in front of him. Nope, he sure isn’t. Cas has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. This affords Dean a close, personal view of the muscles in Cas’s forearms flexing as he wields a knife with easy confidence. 

The sound of the knife hitting the cutting board stops. Dean looks up to see all of Cas’s focus on him. He swears those blue eyes render him stupid, because it takes him a minute to figure out he hasn’t actually answered the question. 

“Ah, no. Not quite. You want to go grab the meat while I finish up the potatoes?”

“Of course, Dean.” That little smile comes out to play again, more in the eyes than anywhere else. 

The stew turns out to be delicious. Cas has been invaluable as far as finding herbs and vegetables to plant in Dean’s garden. He’s added a lot of flavor to Dean’s life, in so many ways. By unspoken agreement, they wander out onto the porch after cleanup is complete. 

The sun is just starting to set, painting the sky in streaks of brilliant orange. Dean leans on the railing, and after a moment Cas comes to lean next to him. There is the entire length of the front porch, and yet Cas chooses to place himself close enough that their arms are pressed together from shoulder to elbow. 

They stay like that until the last hint of orange bleeds from the sky and the moon takes over illuminating the landscape. A chorus of crickets start up. 

Dean shifts a little. He hasn't really been able to appreciate the view with how aware he has been of Cas right there. He turns his head to discover Cas is staring right at him. 

He startles and starts to draw away, growing flustered. Cas, for his part, doesn’t move. That steady regard and solid  presence calms Dean down.  He stops retreating and is drawn in instead. 

Cas continues to watch him as bravery wins out over terror. Dean closes the last inch of distance between them, lips brushing lips, breaths mingling. Cas finally closes his eyes as he steps into the kiss. Neither of them reach for each other in any other way. All of the disparate pieces of Dean’s world snap together to give him this one perfect moment.

 

~Present Day~ 

 

Dean has not had a lot of serious relationships in his life. There have been, in fact, two. Somewhere in the back of his mind he had been thinking Lisa Braeden was the end game. They went in cycles: running into each other, remembering how good the good times were, dating, realizing that they just don't quite fit in each other's lives, parting ways again with vague melancholy and a  _ maybe next time will be different.  _

The next time is never different.

Except that this time is, only in none of the ways Dean expected.

Lisa is lovely. She is sweet and kind and understanding. Sitting across from her at a bar, catching up, now is about the time Dean would be imagining their future together. Barbecuing with the neighbors, taking her son Ben to baseball games, all of the idyllic details of suburbia he has only ever seen on television and in movies. 

What he  _ is _ imagining is Cas. Would Cas like hosting neighborhood barbecues? Beers, hamburgers, just hanging out with no worries in the world?

“Who is she?”

Lisa’s voice pulls him out of his musings. He blinks and focuses on her. “What?”

“Who is she?” Lisa repeats. She doesn't look angry, more resigned than anything. “You’re thinking about someone, and it isn't me.”

“I'm sorry, Lis. There isn't anyone, really.” He ignores the stab of guilt. It isn't possible to cheat on the love of your  _ past _ life. Is it?

Shit. That is exactly what it feels like he is doing.

“There isn't an ‘us’ either, though, is there? Not anymore,” she asks him.

He smiles at her, a little sad but mostly at peace with this. “Still friends?”

“Still friends,” she agrees while clinking her beer bottle against his.

Seeing as his date was more or less a bust, Dean gets home earlier than planned. He walks a few circuits around his house, restlessly wandering. On the third circuit, he picks up his phone and dials his little brother.

“Dean?” Sam answers on the second ring. 

“Dude. Thank you for being a nerd who actually answers the phone on a Friday night.”

“Shut up. I answered in case it was your one phone call and you needed me to wire you money for bail.”

“Haha. Funny. Hypothetically, how would I find out if there was a Dean Winchester in the past? Like an ancestor or something. 1800s probably.”

“Are you serious? Does this have to do with your Clint Eastwood fetish?”

“No. Maybe. Not the point! And fuck you very much for sending Bobby to spy on me, by the way. Are you going to help me with this ancestry shit or what?”

“Sure, Dean. No problem. I'll just trace our history back 200 years. Shouldn't be any trouble at all what with how chatty Dad was about the family.”

“It could be less than 200 years,” Dean complains. “And can I also point out I didn't ask you to do it for me? Just to help me figure out how.”

“No way. This is going to be so much faster to just do it myself. I'll let you know, okay?”

“Sure, Sam. Yeah.” Dean sighed. “Thank you.”

Dean may have just sent his brother on a wild goose chase, but he needs to know for sure if these dreams he is having are based on fact or vivid imagination. That's the first step. What the second step is? He’ll burn that bridge when he comes to it.


	4. Chapter 4

~1861~

 

Dean has never been in the habit of making things easy on himself. Ever since the kiss, he has been weird and awkward around Cas. They will just start to relax, gravitate towards each other, and then Dean panics and pulls away. It has gotten to the point where Cas has been making comments about finally fixing up the clinic and moving into town once spring comes.

There is a stormfront moving in. Dean alternates between watching the clouds approach, and the road towards town.  Cas should be home by now. Dean really hopes that no one managed to talk him into waiting out this storm in town.

He’s just bringing in the last armful of firewood into the house when the buggy pulls up. Thank the heavens.

“Hey, Cas. Since you’re going over to the barn anyhow, can you get started pulling extra hay for everyone?” Snow is already starting to accumulate, this one looks like it could snow them in for a while. “I’ll be out in a bit.”

“Of course, Dean.” Cas looks tired, but he still offers a small smile before unhitching the horse from the buggy and leading her off towards the barn.

The wind is really whistling by the time that they get the house prepared to Dean’s satisfaction. The storm has escalated from a peaceful drifting of flakes to a window-rattling attack.

Dean clears his throat. “I was afraid you were going to decide to stick it out in town.” He ladles some beans onto a plate for Cas.

“I did consider it,” Cas admits. “I was concerned about you being out here on your own. Talk is this is going to be quite a blizzard.”

“I woulda been fine. But thanks.” He cringes at how abrupt that sounds, but Cas lets it pass without comment.

Later that night, Dean has trouble falling asleep. He stares at the ceiling, shivering. This is ridiculous. He is being ridiculous. What is he going to do, let Cas just move into town where they won’t see each other but in passing every few months?

The very thought of that is like a fist clenching around his heart. So, what then? His only other choice is to admit to himself he wants Cas in his life, and stop flinching away from it, from Cas.

It seems so simple. He’s already let Cas into his home, into… yeah. Into his heart. He loves Cas. Now to man up and tell him so.

Dean rolls out of bed and into the outer room where Cas is nothing more than a lump under as many quilts as Dean could put together for him. The light is dim in here, the fire having burned down to a mere glow.

“Hey, Cas? You warm enough?”

There is silence in reply, where Dean knows Cas is considering lying by pretending to be asleep.

Finally, a “No, Dean. It’s cold.”

Damn, but he’s cute when he’s miserable. “Yeah, Cas. It is. Come on, then, Get up, bring your blankets with you.”

Dean’s heart is thumping as he returns to his bedroom. He crawls back into bed and waits. It seems to take forever, but finally a bundled up Cas trudges in. He squints at Dean, trying to figure out the catch. Dean holds the covers up and waits. Cas is the first to break, lured by the temptation of a warm bed.

It takes a few minutes to untangle everything, but finally they are settled in and blissfully warm. They aren’t really cuddled together, but Dean is torturously aware of every place they are touching.

“Cas?” he finally ventures. “I’m sorry for being an idiot. I’ve been scared of…  I don’t even really know what. Letting you in, I guess. Everyone leaves, so it’s best not to let them get close in the first place. But that’s dumb, because you got in anyhow. What I’m trying to say, not very well, is… will you stay? With me? Not just for tonight but for always because, well. Because I love you, Cas.”

The confession is easier in the dark, but he is still terrified of the answer, terrified he’s too late.

“Dean.” Cas sounds choked up, emotional. “Dean. Of course I will stay. I’ll always stay with you. I love you, too.”

Neither one of them particularly minds the blizzard after that.

 

~Present Day~

 

His dreams were typical in at least one fashion. The timeline wasn’t real clear. Dean could feel in his gut, though, that he was getting closer and closer to the first dream. The one where Cas sacrifices himself for Dean. What happens then? Do the dreams start over again, in an endless loop? Or does he lose them entirely? Lose Cas entirely, again?

It was a good thing he worked on his own most of the time, because he was growing more anxious and irritable. Even Bobby was avoiding him. After another day of making virtually no progress on his custom orders, Dean collapses on his couch with a beer in one hand and the remote in the other.

He settles on a channel at random, tosses the remote aside, and digs his phone out of his pocket. There’s a message, a voicemail from Sam. He mutes the TV and listens.

“Dean, I think I found something. I mean, not a direct ancestor because the guy never had kids. If he’s even related at all, no way to even tell. Not the point, right. There was a Dean Winchester, born in 1830. That’s the 1800s, yeah? Anyhow, details of his early life pretty much unknown. Where he came from, all of that. But he settled in a place called Sunrise, Wyoming. There’s lots of stuff on him starting 1861. Check your email, there was an article written about him in the Platte County-Record Times that I forwarded to you. Read that and call me back to tell me just what this is about, okay? Talk to you later, Dean.”

Dean nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to get to his laptop. His leg jiggles up and down as he waits for it to boot up. Come on, come on. “Come on! Finally, jeez.”

He clicks on the article Sam had forwarded him, and starts to read.

Dean Winchester circa 1861 had been a regular guy living just outside of Sunrise, Wyoming… corrupt businessman Azazel holding the citizens in an iron fist… Winchester became sheriff and seemed to have a vendetta against Azazel… cleaned up the town… hero of the people…

Skimming through the article at top speed, Dean buzzes with energy. Every detail feels familiar, like he knows all of these things already. Even details that weren’t in any of his dreams.

Not a single mention of Cas, though.

The end of the article goes into a few details about how an archeological excavation of the old town found some artifacts of interest that raised awareness of the history of Sunrise.

He clicks into the gallery of findings. It’s the third picture that squeezes the breath out of his lungs. The Colt, unearthed just about when Dean’s dreams had started.

“Yahtzee.”


	5. Chapter 5

~Present Day~

 

It turns out that there is an upside to growing apathetic towards his own business and taking on fewer and fewer commissions. It means there is very little keeping Dean from getting in his car and driving to Wyoming. 

He isn’t entirely incapable of research. The Colt is being stored at the local historical society building. There was a note on the website that the collection was available to view by appointment only. So he made an appointment.

Now he is sitting in the parking lot, gripping the steering wheel tightly. He can’t do this. What sort of a crazy idea is it to think that that gun is any sort of link to Cas? Ridiculous is what it is. 

He can’t quite tell if the bigger fear is that he is crazy, or that he isn’t. Either way, he isn’t ready for this. He’s just about to reach for the key still in the ignition when a knock on his window startles the crap out of him. He looks over to see a young lady leaning over to wave at him. She’s smiling as she pulls her bright red hair away from her face. 

“Hi!” She says when he rolls down the window. “Are you Dean? Look for the big black beautiful car, you said.” She sticks her hand out for him to shake. “Charlie Bradbury, we talked on the phone. I prefer smaller and brighter, but this is a cool car, too.” 

He blinks at her enthusiasm, but it does serve to calm him down. He can’t help but smile back, and shake her hand. “Hi, Charlie. Yeah. Yeah, I’m Dean. Winchester. Nice to meet you.”

“It is so cool that you have the same name as my new, second favorite hero. No one is going to ever beat Hermione, but she has magic on her side, so unfair advantage.” 

Dean finds himself ushered into the building and down to a basement storage/work room before he quite knows how he got there. 

“Go ahead and have a seat,” she tells him. She hasn’t stopped talking since he got here, but that’s okay, it means he doesn’t have to. “Technically I shouldn’t be doing this, but who is going to stop me, right?” After sorting through some boxes, Charlie grabs one and comes over to set it down on the desk next to Dean. 

“I’m not generally a fan of guns, swords are more my speed. This one, though. There is something weird and awesome about it that I can’t quite pinpoint. For one, it looks in great shape considering how we found it.”

She takes the lid off of the box, and Dean loses the ability to breathe. He doesn’t lean over to take a closer look until he manages to shudder out an exhale. 

There it is. Just like it was in his dreams. This is it. This is the gun that killed Cas. Trembling , he picks it up. 

“Holy shit!” Charlie exclaims, as the etchings on the frame of the gun begin to glow a soft ethereal blue. 

Dean hardly registers her presence anymore. She fades into the background along with every doubt he had been feeling. 

The cold metal warms in his grip as the glow brightens. Wisps of blue light swirl up and away to twist and condense. “Cas,” Dean whispers. 

“Hello, Dean.”


End file.
